Pale Fire
by frecklesforever93
Summary: Lothíriel wasn't unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-two years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. She felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame.
1. The Missive

A salty mist blew from the shore up to the balcony, whipping Lothíriel's skirts and staining the silk with sea spray. On any other day she would have been upset because this was the last passably extravagant gown she owned, but her heart wasn't in it. She felt as she were one of the gulls flying over the blue waves.

Only a short while before, a soldier rushed to the kitchens to inform her that a lone messenger from Minas Tirith had arrived wishing to deliver news. A fortnight had passed since the last missive from her father, Prince Imrahil, informing her of his intentions to ride to Minas Tirith to aid the Steward of Gondor. While his letter was warm, he spoke of the great danger he would face as he raced the gathered Shadow to her uncle.

Lothíriel had thanked the soldier for the news. She had tried to keep her paces even as she ascended from the kitchens to her rooms, but once she had passed from watching eyes she had broken into a run. Upon entering her quarters, she had stripped herself of her plain linen gown. She donned her last dress worthy of her station to receive the tidings of war, be it ill or not. If the news was good, she would look the lively princess of Dol Amroth they used to know long ago. If the news were ill, her appearance would reassure her people that they were in capable hands. Close to tears already, Lothíriel had chided herself as she left the room. She must remain brave for her people, no matter what she was told.

_The messenger was Alric, who was apprenticed to his father Alden, the Royal Courier. She had helped look after Alric when he was a toddler, though now he was almost thirteen summers. His mother Rícah was the palace cook, a matronly woman who Lothíriel loved dearly. Rícah had stepped into the role of mother when Lothíriel's own had died when she was eight summers._

_ He looked grave when she had entered Grand Hall and when he looked upon her face he burst out crying and ran to her, burying his face into the bodice of her gown. Lothíriel's heart dropped into her stomach as she embraced him until the tears subsided._

_Alric stepped back and used his sleeve to wipe snot, before assuming a brave face._

_"Princess Lothíriel," he croaked out, forcing himself into a stilted bow. "I come bearing news as the-" his voice waned and he took a steadying breath, "I come bearing news as the new Royal Courier from Prince Imrahil."_

_"Oh, Alric!" Lothíriel couldn't contain herself. Her emotions were at war within: sorrow for the loss of dear old Alden who always had a quick joke and a hard candy in his pocket, and restrained joy for news that her own father remained in this world with her._

_Something caught Alric's eyes behind Lothíriel, but he bravely continued on._ _"Prince Imrahil has entrusted me with sharing these glad tidings with you: Sauron has been overthrown and the War of the Ring has ended. Your father and brothers have all survived battle and-" he ran his arm across his eyes to catch fresh tears as they began to fall once more, "and a descendent of Elendil sits upon the throne of Gondor once more. Your father bids me tell you to make haste to the city of Minas Tirith for the coronation, so that you may be joined with your family. _Here_." He shoved a letter into her hands before walking behind Lothíriel to join Rícah who had entered shortly after Alric had bowed and was now silently sobbing uncontrollably. She embraced him and their sorrow, while not dulled, was shared._

Lothíriel shook her head, dispersing the memories. She let her eyes trail out across the waters. A true blue reflected the sky. White foam hit rocks at the foot of the white sandstone walls of the palace. Gulls screeched and dove and emerged with fish clutched in their claws. A lone butterfly fluttered against the wind before disappearing from view. She stepped away from the balcony back into her quarters, away from the peace of the sea to the chaos inside. Her governess, Maren, frantically paced around the room while clutching the letter from Imrahil in her hand.

Maren was ranting, throwing gowns from the wardrobe into a pile on the bed. "Your father bids you leave as soon as a possible! To 'make do with what you have'!"

Lothíriel gingerly sat on the settee next to the bed when Maren whirled around at her.

"You have absolutely nothing fit to wear at court, let alone for the first coronation Gondor has seen in eight hundred years!" Maren huffed.

"It's actually eight hundred eighty-one years," Lothíriel helpfully offered.

"Don't you start with me, young lady!" Maren pointed her finger at her, causing Lothíriel to bite her bottom lip lest she remind Maren that such an action was hardly genteel. "All of your gowns look as if you are farmer's daughter instead of a princess, or they are irredeemably stained from traipsing across the village—"

"If by _traipsing_, you mean dispensing food to the townspeople so they don't starve to death as is my duty, than yes, I was—"

"Aha!" Maren exclaimed. She rushed out of the room before Lothíriel could get in a word edgewise. She was gone long enough to make Lothíriel wonder if she was supposed to have followed when Maren returned with servants lugging an old, heavy trunk, placing it in front of her with a dull _thunk_. A maidservant followed them with a rag, curtsied and dusted it off before being dismissed by Maren. The newly clean desk smelled like lemons grove south of the town. It was made of cedar and intricate wood carvings of waves and ships decorated the lid and the edges. The metal latch was shaped like the neck of a swan, with the nose fitting into a protruding ring to keep the lid closed. The chest was familiar to Lothíriel but was unclear to her how, like a distant memory. She reached out to touch it but was startled by Maren unceremoniously dumping all the dresses off the bed to the floor. Maren's spindly fingers shifted the swan latch and lifted the lid.

"These used to be your mother's," Maren said, lifting up a gown and shaking it out. From the fabric, sprigs of lavender used to prevent insects dropped to the ground. She delicately placed it on the bed before reaching for the next one. "Now, while these are severely out of fashion by almost two decades, they are suited to your station and we can embellish them while we sail to Minas Tirith."

Maren continued chattering about threads and ribbons and stitches but Lothíriel heard not a word. She reached out her hand and stroked the fabric of the nearest dress, smoothing out a pleat. For a moment, the scent of her dear _Naneth_ floated around her before being lost forever. It made her heart ache. Her hand stilled when she noticed Maren's eyes appraising her with a frown.

"You are much plumper than your mother ever was," she announced to the room, before rifling through the trunk. Lothíriel flinched and wanted to argue. She wasn't _plump_. She just wasn't comparable to a twig used for kindling. Everyone this side of the Ered Minrais knew that her mother had been willowy. Maren pulled out a corset, which had been unpopular in court as long as her mother's dresses. "Hopefully once we lace you into this, the dress will fit," she said, pulling out a kirtle and an overdress. "You'll have to wear it every day until we get there to get used to the shallow breathing, especially if you are to dance with any of the lords." She arched her brow at Lothíriel. "Speaking of attracting the lords, when did you get so _dark_, child?"

Lothíriel glanced down at her arms and grimaced, trying to be thankful for her genetics even if it did get her into trouble with Maren. Maren was, to put politely, ancient. She had been Naneth's governess. Naneth came from the coast of _Harondor_ and had met Imrahil while he had been touring with the Dol Amroth navy. Maren had helped raise her ward's children and often commented on the similarities between them.

Elphir had inherited their mother's slenderness. Like Naneth, he had an uncanny ability to both read and command a room. Lothíriel often went to Elphir to ask for his honest opinion. His insight could never disappoint her and she admired his wisdom. How fortunate that the eldest son was born to fulfill his role of future Prince of Dol Amroth.

Erchirion had inherited Naneth's ability to put anyone at ease, as well as her love of the sea. He was, in Lothíriel's opinion, the best sailor out of the four of them (although Amrothos would protest if he heard that). Maren often told her that their mother was constantly causing disturbances in her childhood due to racing on the sea. Lothíriel had to guess that her wildness was part of what attracted her father. Her Naneth had the knack for being so easy-going that people who had never met her felt like they were life-long friends. Lothíriel was sure that these character traits were critical in winning the people of Dol Amroth's favor, since her mother wasn't exactly from the noblest of families.

Amrothos' story-telling ability was just like their mother's, although _Ada_ said that the truth-stretching was unique only to him. Amrothos also inherited Naneth's large eyes, which made him look entirely too innocent. Maren swore someday he would trick a woman into marrying him just by looking at her. She once said this in front of Amrothos and his facial expression had Lothíriel burst into giggles.

Lothíriel had inherited her mother's hair. Lothíriel had dark hair like her father and brothers, but in the summer if she stayed out in the sun long enough, it developed a sheen of deep red. It always held a naturally relaxed curl which was envied at court. However, Lothíriel had also inherited her mother's complexion. Her mother had, as far as Lothíriel could remember, stayed inside as much as possible. When forced to go outside, she had powdered herself to achieve a pale appearance. Lothíriel was forced into powdering her face every so often at Maren's insistence. She knew Maren was only looking after her, but Gondorian standards of beauty did not taint the love Dol Amroth held for Imrahil's bride. Lothíriel wished that she, too, could be accepted.

"Child, I won't be able to hide you with powder," Maren whispered, horrified. "You've not a light patch a skin anywhere."

Lothíriel had to concede. In general, her skin was naturally darker than her mother's. But when Lothíriel stayed outside, her naturally tanned skin turned positively golden.

"I've been following Ada's orders, Marin, while everyone else is away. And I can't do that while sitting in the palace embroidering."

Maren sniffed in response before turning back towards the dresses. "Then we truly have our work cut out for us. We must improve the dresses or else I'm afraid you will remain unattached _permanently_, for who would want a princess when she looks like that!"

* * *

**Sindarin Language Guide**_:_

_Naneth_ \- mother

_Harondor_\- South Gondor; Harondor was part of Gondor until the Kin-strife and frequent assaults and invasions by the Corsairs of Umbar and the Haradrim meant that, by the later years of the Third Age, Gondor lost control over this region. Its climate was described as fluctuating between mild winters and very hot and dry summers.

_Ada_ -father


	2. The Report

The journey took seemingly forever to Lothíriel and likely the rest of the ship's crew. Maren insisted on traveling with them, which put her in a perpetually foul mood. She suffered from _aearlhîw _whilst they sailed along the coast of Belfalas until they cleared the Mouth of Anduin. Betwixt bouts hanging o'er the side of the ship, she berated the cook, bossed around the boatswains, and interrogated the sailing master. Perhaps the only ones unscathed were the captain, first mate, and Dol Amroth's harpists who travelled with them to perform at the coronation (they were safe because they rarely left the cabin they shared, insisting on practicing). Because Maren was incapacitated for the first leg of the journey, it fell to Lothíriel to dissemble the droves of rejected garments she owned and glean whatever usable trimmings she could, placing them in empty baskets for Maren to examine when she was able. Truthfully, Lothíriel wasn't much more pleasant to be around than Maren. She found herself rather snippy with everyone, undoubtedly due to being confined to a corset from every sunrise to dusk. The first time Maren had laced Lothíriel in, she had needed to brace her knee at the base of Lothíriel's spine to get the appropriate leverage. Maren had to tighten it twice that day before Lothíriel could button up one of her mother's gowns. Lothíriel had decided then that she abhorred corsets and understood why they had gone out of style. They were impractical for breathing. Maren, however, was satisfied, because by the fourth day Lothíriel was able to keep it on without reprieve as long as she remained immobile. By the fifth day, Lothíriel was able to complete simple tasks, such as utilizing the chamber pot unassisted or take a turn about the cabin.

By the end of the first week, Lothíriel believed she finally acclimated to wearing a corset, though she wasn't quite sure how she'd ever accomplish dancing in one. Perhaps she could avoid dancing altogether? Somehow she doubted it. In the meantime, Lothíriel busied herself with embellishing her mother's dresses. They had passed through the Mouth of Anduin and were no longer on the sea but rowing up the river. Maren's countenance improved greatly and she was able to assist Lothíriel. On one gown deemed too plain, Maren embroidered elaborate swirling designs in silver thread reminiscent of the sea surf around the cuffs, collar, and hem. On a dove grey dress, Lothíriel stitched mother of pearl on the skirt. Once Lothíriel was exhausted from her constricted lungs and pricking her fingers, she would retreat to the deck and gaze at the lands.

The entourage was small, with only two ships sailing along the river. Lothíriel and Maren occupied the larger of the two which housed the greater number of Swan-Knights. The larger ship was part of the Royal Armada. Its large white sails were massive when unfurled and the figure head at the bow shaped like a swan's head. The outside of the ship had detailed carvings in the white wood, made to mimic the feathers of a swan's wings. The other ship of the party was from Dol Amroth's fleet. Its smaller size allowed it to sail faster and be maneuvered in tighter places more easily. The remainder of the ships stayed in Dol Amroth to protect the coast there from Corsairs of Umbar. Lothíriel was unworried, for as per her father's letter, ships bearing Swan-Knights would be stationed periodically along the river to join them and ensure their safety. The first of her father's ships, _Aerthûl, _was the first to join them as they approached Pelargir. The setting sun cast hues of rose gold on the stark white sails. But it wasn't until they passed through South Ithilien and reached Emyn Arnen that Lothíriel became excited. A giggle rippled through her as the_ Lancrista,_ came into view. Oh, how she had teased Amrothos for the naming of his first ship! As they rowed closer, she could see him walking excitedly on deck, waving to her and barking orders. They came to dock at shore and in no time Amrothos had departed his ship and boarded her own.

"Lothy!" He yelled, scrambling up the ladder thrown off the side. His grin was infectious and wide as she threw herself into his open arms, squeezing him fiercely. "Great _Ulu_, what a welcome sight you are! I've missed you! How do you fair? Are you eating enough? You look too skinny! Is that _Naneth_'s dress? How ever did you fit into that? _Have_ you been eating enough? We expected you two days ago! What took you so long?"

Lothíriel couldn't help the good natured teasing and chided him as she released him. "Amrothos, I've told you once and I'll tell you again: I can't answer every question when you throw them at me all at once!"

Amrothos had the decency to look properly chastised but continued grinning. "Tell me you're your journey was uninterrupted by any hazards. We expected you two days ago."

"That is due to Maren," Lothíriel explained. "She demanded a day on the shore to dye cloth. Do not be cross with the Captain for postponing our progress. She was a tempest personified!"

He looked quizzical. "Maren came along? And why would you need to dye cloth? Haven't you plenty to wear?"

Lothíriel's eyes dropped. "There is much changed since you were last home."

Amrothos frowned. "Tell me all."

"Well…trade has all but ceased due to heightened traffic by the Corsairs. Goods we once considered essential are now regarded as frivolous. Cloth is limited to what we have and our grain stores have been depleted." Lothíriel's further account was interrupted by Maren's footsteps approaching them. Amrothos immediately stood up straighter as she approached.

"After all I've done for you and yours, you did not yet greet me, boy." Maren croaked, wagging a finger at Amrothos.

Amrothos grinned. "I didn't know an old cantankerous governess would be here."

Maren's eyes narrowed and she reached up and firmly swatted the back of his head. "I'm not old."

If it was possible, Amrothos' grin widened. "You told me you vowed to never step on a boat again after transporting Naneth to _Ada_."

"Aye, and you once swore that you would wed me when you were old enough."

Amrothos guffawed, motioning them to follow him below deck to continue the conversation in private. They settled themselves in Lothíriel's cabin and Amrothos urged Lothíriel to finish her report on Dol Amroth.

"I've had to access the emergency victuals," Lothíriel, grimacing as Maren dropped lace into her hands that needed mending. "_Rícah_ has been doing her best to make due. She's been baking _cram_ with what remains. I hand out rations of it to the town every few days." Maren made a disapproving noise, but didn't press the matter and Lothíriel began the painstaking task of tatting. "Dol Amroth is living on what we can produce ourselves. The townspeople survive off mollusks, but are too frightened to venture outside of the shallows." Lothíriel sighed. "Some of them have gone too far from the shore and didn't return. I now instruct some of our Swan-Knights to fish every day, though I'm sure they're not pleased with me for the directive. We're fortunate we have a ready supply of meat and salt from the ocean. I've gotten very skilled with herbs in the kitchen. You wouldn't believe the difference it makes when you've eaten fish every day for every meal."

"And are you eating every meal?" Amrothos inquired. "Because I'm certain that was Naneth's dress, and she was built like an eel."

"Doesn't she look splendid?" Maren interjected.

"Yes, I've been eating," Lothíriel glared at Maren. "But as I stated, all of my dresses are sensible. I've been wearing them while weeding the gardens or cooking in the kitchen. I don't own anything extravagant fit for court-"

"Absolutely nothing fit for a princess!" Maren bemoaned.

"—and Maren found some of Naneth's dresses that we could alter for me. Included in the chest was a corset, which is—"

"This is highly inappropriate discourse, young lady!"

"—laced so tightly I can barely breathe in attempt to stuff me inside this gown," Lothíriel finished.

Amrothos chuckled at Maren's distress, prompting her to swat at him again.

"And what of you, brother? Are father and the rest well?"

Amrothos assured Lothíriel that he, her brothers, and Ada were well. His countenance visibly fell when he delivered the news that their Uncle Denethor and cousin Boromir had passed. "Faramir is on the mend. He took a critical blow while defending Minas Tirith. Ada was able to rescue him. Of course, this was before I got there, or else I would have done it myself. He seems shaken, and I dare say he is still critically wounded by Boromir's death."

Lothíriel sighed, wiping tears that were gathering at the corner of her eyes. "What ill news. I had hoped to show Boromir that I can bake bread now. It is leagues better than the _last_ time I had baked for him, though it is not to the quality of Rícah's. Faramir must be desolate."

"When I departed, he had been _quite_ preoccupied."

Amrothos explained what had happened at the Battle of Minas Tirith. He told them of how the White Lady of Rohan had surreptitiously joined her kinsmen and had slain the Witch King of Angmar, but not before receiving a devastating blow. He described how she had been healed by their new King, who was a mighty warrior, noble and just, blessed with a healing hand, and had "nigh taken her from the very grips of blackness and horror." (The King Elessar also had a quiet sense of humor and was "tall as the sea-kings of old").

"While recovering, the White Lady met our own dear Faramir," and the amount of brow wiggling and winking caused Maren to swat him again.

"In all seriousness, I am indeed pleased for Faramir. He deserves every happiness," Lothíriel pressed, "and he has not had any for a time."

"Aye, not since your Aunt Finduilas died," Maren supplied.

"I am pleased as well," Amrothos insisted. "And Faramir could not pick any more fortuitous than the White Lady. She is sister-kin to the King of Rohan."

"_Îdh_ has smiled upon him," Maren said, warmly.

"I thought the King of Rohan was older," Lothíriel mused.

"Théoden King was their uncle. The White Lady slew the Witch-King to save him, though she was too late."

"Oh."

Amrothos entertained Lothíriel the remainder of the time with stories. Erchirion had apparently thrown a fit when Amrothos was chosen to meet her instead, but he had been tasked with mollifying many of the nobleman who were left reeling after the passing of their uncle, the Steward of Gondor, and the coming of King Elessar. The new King of Rohan was already displeased with Elphir, who had recommended a prompt betrothal and marriage to secure the royal line. Elphir had been unexpectedly backed by numerous advisors of Rohan, which had incensed the king. The king had, evidently, roared at Elphir to focus on getting his _own_ wife before hassling him. Elphir had smugly introduced the king to Rosilith who, since Elphir had parted from Dol Amroth a few years ago, had been working in the Houses of Healing, and their son Alphros. Amrothos described the king's following outburst with glee, managing to censor the tirade at the last moment when he noticed Maren was listening.

All in all, the last leg of the journey was pleasant with Amrothos in tow. Once they arrived in Osgiliath, an escort met them with horses and wagons to guide them to Minas Tirith. They had managed to make it a day and a half before the coronation ("So soon!" cried Maren, though she was to blame for the delay). After a rather joyous reunion between her father and brothers, Maren insisted there was still much to do before Lothíriel could be considered presentable (Lothíriel had a feeling this was because the day previous, Maren had noticed freckles on her face).

And so it came to be the morning of the coronation.

* * *

**Sindarin Language Guide:**

_aearlhîw _= _aear -_ sea + _lhîw _-sickness

_Aerthûl = aear _\- sea + _thûl_ -breath

_Lancrist_ = _lanc_ \- throat + _crista_ \- (v.) to cut

_Ulu - _The Sindarin equivalent of **Ulmo**; Ulmo, also known as King of the Sea, Lord of Waters, and Dweller of the Deep, cared about Arda and the Children of Eru. It was said his spirit was in the very viens of the world, and through them he kept in touch with the Children of Eru and saw every grief and need, and thus knew more of the goings on with them than even Manwë. Even while the Valar were secluded in Valinor or when the Children were under the wrath of his brethren, Ulmo, alone of the Valar, was the one who never forsook them.

_Naneth _\- mother

_Ada_ \- father

_cram_ \- cake of compressed flour or meal (often containing honey and milk)

_Îdh_ -The Sindarin equivalent of **Estë**; One of the seven queens of the Valar (The Valier), Estë had the power to heal all hurts and weariness.


	3. The Coronation

Lothíriel weaved her way through the crowd to join her brothers near the front for the coronation. Maren trailed at her elbow the entire time, commenting on the once again missing Erchirion. Lothíriel had only briefly seen her brother when she arrived to Minas Tirith before he had to take his leave. Lothíriel wondered where he could be during such an important ceremony; surely he wouldn't miss it, nor not join his siblings in the fray. Maren startled at the trumpet flourish, which quieted the crowd.

The Dúnedain, wearing silver and grey, who had accompanied the new King of Gondor in the procession, had taken their designated place amidst the crowd but towards the front. Unfortunately for Lothíriel, their designated place was right in front of where she and her family had claimed. While Lothíriel was tall (as her entire family was), she had to stand on her toes to glimpse anything. From her spot, she could see the Lord Aragorn was garbed in black mail and belted with silver. A mantle of the purest white flowed over his shoulders, fastened with a large jewel that, even from her position, she could tell was a bright green. His bearing was noble, with an even mixture of pride and humility.

Lothíriel thought she saw a flash of blond hair as well as children (which must be the _periain_ Amrothos had mentioned to her), but before she could further study them, a Dúnedain shifted into her line of view. Lothíriel's bitterness of not being tall enough was short lived. With this shift, it revealed Mithrandir and two people Lothíriel loved very much. She couldn't help but embrace the feeling of familial pride she felt as the coronation commenced at the top of Minas Tirith.

Mithrandir stood at the very front with her father, Prince Imrahil, and her cousin, Faramir. Faramir knelt in front of Lord Aragorn and presented a white rod. Words were exchanged that she struggled to hear, though she gathered it was Faramir surrendering his office of Steward of Gondor. Amrothos was grinning and elbowing her in the ribs as Lord Aragorn returned the rod to Faramir, and she could catch the his voice replying "it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last."

Then the clear voice of her cousin rang out over the crowd with what surely was a great speech, but to Lothíriel all sound turned murky, like the ocean after a great storm, for another shift of the Dunedain revealed a man.

He was tall. Far more than her father or brothers, but of like height to King Elessar. He was standing near the _periain_ and separated from the crowd so Lothíriel knew he must be important, but besides that he wore a costly tunic of brocaded green that indicated him as upper class. He had broad shoulders, and the garb he wore could not mask the bearing of a warrior. Nay, nor could the trimmed beard hide the sharpness of his jaw. His golden hair was neatly plaited at the nape of his neck, which was equally golden from the sun. He moved forward at something King Elessar said, and Lothíriel couldn't believe how a man as large as he could move so gracefully, like a feline. Furthermore, she couldn't believe how tight his deerskin breeches were. Lothíriel could not drag her eyes from this thoroughly masculine man.

Elphir, holding Alphros, had moved closer to her, and in a low voice that penetrated the fog of her mind, said "That's the King of Rohan."

Before she could respond, Faramir cried: "Behold the King!" And in that moment all the trumpets were blown, and Maren was already herding her back to her quarters to change for the festivities.

* * *

Lothíriel tried to minimize the splashing while she sat in the tub. Lothíriel loved being in the water, as it was normally comforting, but she felt it was unnecessary since she had bathed the previous evening. Taking care to keep her hair dry, she swirled her fingertips between the slices of lemon that floated around her, hoping to find answers in the expanding ripples.

_The King of Rohan. _

Lothíriel wasn't unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-two years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime, practically a spinster in the minds of the other courtiers.

Essentially, being unattached at such a ripe age when most girls were married off at fifteen, had led her to experience the beginnings of infatuation, attraction, and, at times, even admiration. In fact, she had shocked some of the older noblewomen by being observed holding hands without a betrothal contract in place. They'd be aghast if they knew at times it went beyond hand holding into the territory of kissing. Both Lothíriel and her paramours knew that the sweet, innocent embraces were but empty and fleeting.

But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, _this_ was an entirely different beast. And it infuriated her.

When Lothíriel was sixteen, she'd overheard a conversation between two maids while they were making up a bedroom. They had spoken of matters that were quite improper. One had described in detail the rough joining she'd had with a man twice her age against a wall behind a tavern. The other had responded that she kept herself content with her own hand. These encounters were something Lothíriel had never conceived, for these things were never explained to her. She supposed such behavior was shameful, a notion which had been reinforced with the strict rules of nobility and courting. And having no mother to explain further, Lothíriel had tried to forget what they said.

But she vividly remembered this conversation now. Thinking of the one maid's description and applying it to _him_ caused her nipples to tighten. What would it feel like to be held by him? To feel his lips on hers? Her hand dropped underwater to the juncture of her thighs.

She'd never really done this before, never had wanted to. None of her past paramours had inspired this unknown aching that occurred in her most intimate of places. The tips of Lothíriel's fingers tentatively brushed against her sex.

Maren walked in with a drying cloth, startling Lothíriel. Lothíriel's hand darted to the surface and she flushed a deep red in embarrassment and shame. Oblivious, Maren motioned for Lothíriel to rise and padded the moisture away. Lothíriel was thankful her flush had abated by the time heated oils scented with saltwater lilies were applied to her skin. Maren helped Lothíriel with her kirtle and squeezed her into the corset.

Maren bemoaned how dark Lothíriel's skin looked.

"Maren, that's enough," Lothíriel snapped, already feeling uncomfortable between the corset and her thoughts.

Maren glared at her. "Everyone will be talking about it," she said sharply, "it's absolutely ghastly for a noblewoman."

"Then let them talk!" Lothíriel replied, heatedly. "They have no right to prattle about me as if I did something wrong. I cannot control what I was born with, nor am I ashamed of it. I shall wear it proudly, as it denotes that I have ventured out of complacency and contributed to the welfare of our people."

Maren was achingly quiet for a long time, before she smiled apologetically. "I often forget how much alike you are to your mother." Maren put her hand against Lothíriel's cheek. "Aye, you are right. They have done naught but sneer at the misfortune around them and concerned themselves with nothing of import. Do not let an old woman's words trouble you, for you are a daughter of great men, with keen insight and a kind heart. If they are to talk about you, let us give them something to talk about."

* * *

Light from the flames of lit torches bounced against the stone. Many of the walls were covered in freshly washed tapestries. Bundles of thyme were hung at intervals on the wall, and long wooden tables with solid benches for dining were decorated with blue lobelia and white camellia. Lothíriel was pleasantly surprised to see the flowers, as she had thought all that was beautiful had died during the war. She itched to harvest the leaves, which made a very splendid tea. She thought it careless of everyone to use the plants as mere decorations when they could be dried and distributed as rations_. Ah,_ Lothíriel thought bitterly, _but the war is over and I'm sure everyone would rather forget rationing._

Several tables were claimed already, each laden with the bounty only a feast could provide. Some long tables were empty, waiting for families to gather and partake in the delights that awaited them. A few of the long tables were shoved to the side of the hall to make room for dancing, as they were sparsely occupied by those who had already overindulged in the spirits and food.

Lothíriel surely felt the eyes on her when she entered the grand room, searching for her family. Indeed, she couldn't help but feel self-conscious, but tried to ignore the feeling. She could already hear the tittering of the noblewomen. Within a moment's time, a few lords had already approached her asking for a dance. Lothíriel had been able to politely refuse, supplying that she had just arrived and was looking for her father. They had walked away rather dejectedly. Though he had not offered himself as a dance partner, Lothíriel could feel Lord Brayan's gaze track her across the room and it caused the hairs on her arms to stand at up. After nearly having wine spilled on her "accidentally" by Lady Blythe, Lothíriel eventually found the Elphir and Amrothos –_where was Erchirion?_—lingering near an entryway. Their tall figures in Dol Amroth regalia looked princely and intimidating compared to the other noblemen, ensuring her a perfect reprieve from dance requests.

As she approached, Amrothos opened and closed his mouth repeatedly like a fish. "Lothy," he exclaimed, "I must demand that you go back and change this instant."

Lothíriel daintily rose an eyebrow. Elphir also hesitated, before opening his mouth to speak when he was interrupted with the return of Rosilith carrying Alphros.

She immediately squealed. "Oh Lothíriel!" she said, shoving the squirming tot into his father's arms in favor of smoothing the pale pink pleats of her gown, and grasping Lothíriel's forearm, "you look absolutely splendid!"

"No she doesn't!" interjected Amrothos.

"Oh shush, you," Rosilith whirled at Amrothos, poking his chest with a rigid finger. "If Lady Elspeth looked like this, you wouldn't be complaining."

"That's exactly the point," Elphir said, darkly. "You look like a strumpet."

Seeing a flash of emotion on Lothíriel's face, Rosilith whirled this time at her husband. "Hear me now, _hervenn_. You have seen bare shoulders plenty of times 'fore now. I have a mind to turn you over my knee for your insolence. And _you_, Amrothos. You best remember that she is not only your sister but a member of the royal family deserving of respect, who has been running Dol Amroth by _herself_ with no help from you. She is no longer a child, but a woman, and you should be ashamed of yourself."

Lothíriel barely heard the continued tongue-lashing Amrothos received as Rosilith directed him further to the side of the room. Lothíriel looked to the contrite Elphir.

"Is it…is it really that dreadful?" she asked tentatively.

Elphir sighed, shifting Alphros from one hip to the other. "Forgive me, Lothíriel. I spoke rashly. You surprised me, is all. Though I daresay your attire is nowhere near court-appropriate for Gondor, it is surely passable in Dol Amroth and not at all deserving of my words."

Lothíriel let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I admit, it's a bit much for me as well, but Maren insisted I wear it."

Elphir looked surprised. "I am shocked Maren approved of this, though I don't blame her. If her aim was to capture the attention of eligible men, it has certainly succeeded. Perhaps too well, as even Lord Rawley is ogling you, much to the despair of his wife." Elphir's face darkened. "And Lord Brayan hasn't taken his eyes off of you since you walked in."

Lothíriel repressed a shudder. "No, I suspect Maren was trying to atone for harsh words in a quarrel." She shrugged. "She manages to bring out the warg in me every so often. And it's not her fault entirely that the gown doesn't adhere to Gondorian standards. Despite is being a few decades out of season, it would normally be considered fairly decent if I were similar to _Naneth's_ build. As it is, I'm a bit too…plump, in certain areas, for it to sit rightly on my frame. But Elphir, if you think it best, I would go back and change now."

"Nay, Rosy is right. You aren't our little sea urchin any longer."

Lothíriel scrunched her nose in distaste for her childhood moniker. Rosilith returned to take Alphros who was decidedly squirming and reaching for her. Amrothos followed sullenly behind her, staring at his boots.

"'M sorry, Lothy." He mumbled, glancing up. Rosilith quirked an eyebrow at him and he flushed. "You look splendid and I'm a deplorable brother with no taste."

Rosilith nodded in approval, shooting a wink in Lothíriel's direction.

"Oh, Amrothos," Lothíriel sighed, grinning. He peeked up and saw all was forgiven and beamed at her.

"Perfect," Rosilith declared, cutting off the conversation. "We should find your father. I'd like to eat something before the dancing starts."

"Yes," Elphir said, looking at his sister. "I suppose your dance card will be full within seconds."

Lothíriel shifted. "Actually, I'm not planning on dancing tonight."

"Oh, why ever not! Lothíriel, it's a celebration, you absolutely must!" Rosilith cried, her bright eyes widened in horror that Lothíriel would dare to skip dancing (it was Rosilith's favorite part of a party due to the fact she met Elphir while dancing).

"Maybe she doesn't want anyone getting the wrong ideas," Amrothos said, dryly. He glared in the direction of Lord Brayan.

"Perhaps…" Elphir said slowly, shooting a sly glance at Lothíriel, "perhaps she'll change her mind if the King of Rohan asks her."

Lothíriel flushed.

Elphir nodded his head towards his right, capturing Lothíriel's attention.

Sitting at one of the long tables was the King of Rohan.

* * *

**Sindarin Language Guide:**

_periain - _(plural form of _perian_), Halfings/Hobbits

_hervenn - _husband


	4. The Party

A handful of large, blond men hollered out a hearty welcome to their new King as he and his newly appointed Marshal of the East-mark, Elfhelm, joined them. Though the evening was young and the new King of Gondor had yet to arrive to partake in merry-making, the Rohirrim had wasted no time in establishing themselves at one of the long wooden benches situated near the main table in the great hall. It did not take them long, however, to see the foul mood on their King, nor the weary look on the Marshal's.

The Riders of Rohan shuffled a bit and, with minimal jostled ale, cleared a space in the center of a bench for the two to sit. Éomer King sat down with his arms crossed against his chest and glared at one of the decorative flowers on the table. Léofa and Audra were arguing about which type of dagger was best kept in the boot. Ethelred passed the pitcher of ale to Elfhelm and Aldor while reprimanding Éothain and the twins, Gram and Fram, for shamelessly gawking at some of the Gondorian ladies. When the silence had gone on for several minutes, Ethelred quirked a brow at Elfhelm, who sighed.

"He had another letter from Erkenbrand," Elfhelm offered.

"Is all well?" queried Aldor. The rest of the men looked worried.

"Yea and nay," Elfhelm responded. He looked over at Éomer to see if he would take over the explanation; he rolled his eyes when Éomer did not stir. "First and foremost, Erkenbrand is aggrieved by the news of his sister-son's death. Dúnhere's passing was hard for his sister, who lost her husband at the Battle of the Hornburg."

The men hummed in agreement. A reverent silence fell over the group. They, too, felt the absence of their comrades: _Grimbold_, who was a valiant captain under the late Prince Théodred, had been crucial in the defense of the Fords of Isen and had taken over the command of the muster of the Westfold; Guthláf, whose grip had been so tight on his banner that it had to be pried from his hands even after death. These were just a few men who would never return to Rohan, who would never see wild horses frolicking in the pastures or hear the wind whipping through the seas of grass. These men would never feel the touch of their mother's embrace or smell the fragrant hair of their lover.

Elfhelm cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued. "Erkenbrand's counsel is greatly valued. Due to his experience, he was meant to guide the Lady Éowyn in guarding Rohan while we've been gone."

"Except she's here," Audra interrupted. Éomer shifted his weight.

"Aye, we did not know then the man we knew as Dernhelm was the White Lady. Thus Erkenbrand has been ruling in her stead by himself. He said that many of the Dunlendings have fled our lands after Sauron's fall. Erkenbrand is troubled that Saruman still lives, even if he is imprisoned in Isengard."

"But surely the old fool can do no harm locked up in the tower and under constant surveillance," Gram argued.

"You would do well to not underestimate him, Gram." Éomer said as he sat up sharply, finally spurred into action. "Gandalf believes so, as well." He heaved a sigh, slouching again. "Erkenbrand is worried of whispered rumors that the _Dunlendings_ are amassing again, lured by the promises made by the wizard. Erkenbrand expects that they will either attempt to rescue Saruman or attack Rohan while we are rebuilding." With that declaration, the scowl on his face reappeared.

"Aye, I understand that the news received was not the most upliftin', but…" Audra said, slowly.

"_Béma's _balls, what ails ye?" quipped Éothain, jabbing his elbow into Éomer's side and receiving a deathly glare.

"Not. A. Word." Éomer hissed toward Elfhelm. He swiftly shoved the flowers away using his forearm and reached over Erkenbrand to grab the pitcher.

"Ahh," the corner of Elfhelm's mouth twitched, "Erkenbrand's letter may also have contained counsel on acquiring a queen."

Éomer visibly bristled and muttered something about "disobeying direct orders" and "treason." Éothain's guffaws were drowned out by Gram and Fram laughing and Léofa cracked a smile. The tension now abated, the men continued their teasing and conversations. Ethelred and Elfhelm whispered about the future of Isengard. Now on the subject of women, Gram and Fram argued over whether or not the bosom or the buttocks was more alluring in a partner, pointing out passing ladies who fit their fancy.

Gram made a low wolf-whistle and caught the attention of the other soldiers. "She's a real beaut," he said.

"A lady is not a horse, young man," Aldor said dryly.

"Aye, but that's his only comparison, seeing as he's only stuck his cock in one," Fram retorted, laughing while he earned a punch in the shoulder from his brother and a slap on the head from Aldor.

"Mind your manners, boy," he warned.

"Her coloring reminds me of a Dunlending," Audra commented, his eyes hard.

"If ye mean that her skin's darker than yours, then aye. But that's where the comparison ends," interjected Léofa.

"Look at those curves," Gram remarked, throwing a biscuit at Éomer who remained focused on his drink. "I'd love to feel her pressed up against me, moaning my name."

Aldor now slapped the back of Gram's head. "Remember where we are. She's clearly highborn, and your lecherous words can get us into trouble."

"She's definitely a lady," Ethelred agreed, breaking his conversation with Elfhelm, "though she seems not to adhere to the rest of the court's practices. Her style of garment and choice of color clearly indicate that."

Fram hummed in agreement, "As for the style, _I_ certainly don't mind."

"What do you mean 'color?'" asked Gram, oblivious of all fashions unless it was to comment on which dresses were easiest to unlace.

"Take a look around," responded Léofa. His singular lifted eyebrow implied his lack of confidence in Gram's observational skills. "All the other ladies are in lively colors."

The men looked around at the people in the hall. All of the servants were clad in various shades of blue to represent Gondor. Most of the female partygoers wore in softer colors of spring, like periwinkle or chartreuse, light lavenders, sunny yellows, or pale purples. Some of the nobles who could afford the cost of the rarer dyes wore vivid vermilion, flashing fuchsias, and other attention seeking shades.

Éomer, who had been tuning everything out, twitched violently as Éothain threw an elbow into his side. "What was that for?"

"What do you think of her?"

"Who?"

"The lass that Gram pointed out."

"Don't care."

"_Béma_, Éomer. You used to jump at a chance to look at a pretty skirt."

"That was before."

"Before what?" Éothain asked exasperatedly.

"Before, when I wouldn't be immediately expected to give her a crown and entrust my people to her."

Éothain snorted. "A quick glance won't tie ye down to the lass, and I think she's worth the look."

"How so?" Éomer sighed, looking in the direction that Éothain pointed in. All he saw were a few tall men in Dol Amroth apparel next to a woman in a rosy pink dress holding a child.

"Ach, they're blocking her from view!" Éothain grumbled.

Éomer rolled his eyes and stood suddenly, startling Éothain. Éothain looked up and saw the Lady Éowyn approaching, her pale gold hair elaborately pinned to her head according to Gondorian custom. Slender and tall she was, as ever, in her white robe and a circlet of gold and silver with green jewels upon her brow. Her strength was no longer stern as steel and unyielding, but she was still undeniably a daughter of kings. Once fair and cold like a morning of pale spring, she had transformed into a sunny afternoon of mid-season, fully blossomed and yielding of its bounty. Her grey eyes nearly glowed with peace and joy, and the transformation was apparent to any and all who had known her prior.

Éomer offered his seat to her and she smiled gratefully. She swept her skirts into one hand to allow for the ability to climb over the bench, before situating herself between Elfhelm and Éothain. The men cheered at her presence, and drinks were once more passed around.

Éomer felt a presence behind him to his right before a firm but warm hand fell on his shoulder. Éomer instinctively reached for his sword on his hip before realizing it wasn't there.

"Peace, Éomer King," The Prince of Dol Amroth, Imrahil, smiled kindly at him. His long dark hair, greying at the temples, was intricately braided to twist around a silver coronet featuring a swan at the center. His tunic was dove grey, with blue and silver thread stitched into the velvet fabric in the shapes of swans over the sea. A mantle of steel blue clasped on his shoulders matched the thread in his tunic and flowed to the ground. Whirls and flourishes in shimmery silver thread edged the mantle. Though shorter than Éomer, the prince's posture was straight as a sword and gave him the air of regality that was his birthright. The corner of his eyes crinkled with his warm smile.

"Forgive me, Prince Imrahil," Éomer apologized, reaching his empty hand to clasp the forearm of the prince's in a warrior's greeting.

"There is nothing to forgive," he replied. "I know that peace can make one feel anxious."

Éomer grunted in agreement, letting his arm fall back to his side, his hand flexing awkwardly at the lack of his sword. He shifted his weight uneasily as he stood there. "I have no memory of peace."

"Then it is time to make memories," Imrahil responded. "My wife, too, knew the apprehension I felt when the _Corsairs of Umbar _were too quiet, or the thoughts that haunted me after battle. The best way to forget is to embrace the ones you love. At least, that is what my wife always said, before she passed."

Éomer was silent for a moment as he pondered what Imrahil said, looking fondly at the table accommodating his sister and brothers-in-arms. "If only it were that easy," he sighed, taking a few steps away from the table so that they could speak more privately. "I cannot forget the ones who are lost to me, nor the responsibility they have left to me."

"Nay, to do so would be dishonorable. But," he paused, "the responsibility need not be so great."

Éomer frowned. "Imrahil, you and I share a bond forged in war and bloodshed. You are a brother-in-arms to me, and I greatly respect your opinion. I also owe you a debt that can never be repaid, for saving my sister on the battlefield. But I implore you to speak plainly, for I perceive you have something you wish to say, and I do not have the willpower to discern it."

Imrahil looked at Éomer, weighing something in his mind before deciding to speak. "As you wish, Éomer. The responsibility you face is great, but can be easily lessened with someone by your side. The running of Dol Amroth was a great undertaking, and my burden was halved when I married my wife."

Éomer's jaw clenched, but Imrahil continued. "You say you respect my opinion, and I urge you to heed it. Do not allow your grief to prevent you from considering this, for that it what it is: grief. You are grieving not only those you have lost, but the future and freedom you may have once had, as well as the difficult course in front of you."

Éomer's nostrils flared and his eyes flashed, "_And who would you choose for me?"_

A few people looked up from their table, alarmed at the tone and volume from his statement. A particularly worried glance from Éowyn caused him to lower his voice and whisper furiously: "Would you have me wed a widow from my own country, to further acknowledge the cost of war and declare my commitment to my people?" He scoffed. "Nay, I'm sure you would have me forge an alliance with Gondor. Shall I take my pick of one of the ladies here? One whose station, until recently, has been superior to my own? A station that has been only one of comfort and frippery? Perhaps now they will deign to lower themselves to wed a warrior-turned-king, because the lure of a crown will cause them to forget they consider my country to be one of barbarians? Shall I choose a woman who has no knowledge of what this war has cost my people, nor of what it will take to rebuild?" He breathed heavily as his rant finished, looking at Imrahil who stood stoic and silent next to him. Éomer felt better now that the feelings he had been ruminating over had been released into the world, but felt more ashamed as the silence stretched on longer than comfortable. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Imrahil spoke before he could. Éomer had to strain to hear what he said, for his voice was so quiet.

"I know the responsibility you bear, but I know little of the weight it must cause to have it placed there so suddenly. I had hoped you would listen to my counsel, for I give it from my own experience."

"Imrahil, I-"

"Nay, please hear me out. I did not intend to offend you, for I would wish for nothing to break the bond we have forged. I, too, respect you, Éomer King, and wish for you to succeed."

"Forgive me. I know you had no ill intent, nor were you aware of the pressure I have been given in this matter from others."

Imrahil smiled, graciously. "If you would allow it, I'd like to clarify one thing."  
"Please," Éomer nodded, hopeful to push past this incident.

"Not all the women of Gondor are as you describe, though I may be biased," Imrahil said, smiling affectionately. At Éomer's look of confusion, he continued, "My own daughter is among those here."  
"My lord, I _never_ meant to imply-"

"No, no!" Imrahil laughed, waving him off. "I know you were only aware of my three sons. But my daughter is also a force to be reckoned with, and she would not take kindly to being described as one who is unaware of the cost of war, or one obsessed with frippery. She was charged with the care of Dol Amroth and its kingdom while her kin were away at war. Of course, that is not to say that she has been living a life of comfort while we were gone. In her charge, she has fought the Corsairs and contended with the _Haradrim_ and, if what some of the servants say to be true, battled a few units of Men of _Khand_. She stretched out the food stores and risked her safety to provide for the entire village. She also didn't reveal to me some of the things she has forfeited to provide for others , resulting in her less than ideal wardrobe selection for the next few weeks. All of which, while I'm proud, I still need to seriously reprimand her for. But my point is that there are women in Gondor capable of being your equal and up to the task of being a queen of Rohan."

Imrahil paused, and then pointed across the room. "That's my Lothíriel over there."

A young woman stood next to a lord offering his hand to her. She was tall, like the rest of her family, towering over most of the other women and standing equally to some of the men. Her dark hair was not pinned up like the rest of the women in the court, but rather fell down her back in soft curls, similar to the style worn in Rohan. The color of her gown reminded Éomer of scouting missions, camping under the night sky full of glittering stars. The deep, midnight blue was interrupted by small stones catching the light in constellations. Her shoulders were bare, revealing her tanned naked flesh; and, while the neckline wasn't dangerously low, the pull of the gown across her bosom revealed enough cleavage that Éomer could see it from across the room. In fact, the gown fit her so snugly it revealed curves that made it seem indecent. For a split second, her lashes lifted and her eyes met his.

Éomer felt lightning in his blood, his loins tightening at the image. He let out a string of curses at the reaction, which was fortunately misconstrued as concern by her father because at the very moment the lord next to Lothíriel grabbed her wrist and wrenched her towards him.

Éomer was already half the distance from them before he realized he had even moved.

* * *

**Additional Context:**

_Dunlendings_ (or **Gwathuirim)** \- ferocious, tall and vicious men that lived in Dunland, close to Rohan. Also called the Wild Men of Dunland, these dark-haired reclusive folk had long been enemies of the Rohirrim, because they were jealous that the rich lands of the old Númenórean province of Calenardhon were granted by the Gondorians to the Rohirrim instead of them.

The _Corsairs of Umbar_ \- sea-raiders and pirates of the Haven of Umbar. The corsairs were recognizable by their red sails, adorned with a black star or eye. Umbar, who would welcome exiles from Gondor suspected for treason or conspiring against the King, attacked Gondorian ships and raided its coast at every opportunity, threatening the coastlands and all traffic on the sea and contested the possession of Harondor. For most of the Third Age, Umbar was reclaimed, rebuilt, and occupied by the **Haradrim**. It became a home for a new generation of 'Corsairs of Umbar', cruel slavers who often raided the coasts of Belfalas and Anfalas in Gondor. During the War of the Ring, Umbar could still send 50 "great ships" and a number of smaller vessels "beyond count" to raid the coastlands of Gondor, and draw off major forces from the defense of Minas Tirith.

The _Haradrim _(or **Southrons**) - a proud and warlike people of the Harad. Ancient enemies of Gondor, they allied with Sauron during the War of the Ring. They were tall and dark-skinned with black hair and dark eyes. Many warriors were seen in bright clothing, such as scarlet robes, and were decorated with golden ornaments, such as collars, earrings, corsets of overlapping brazen plates; they braided their hair with gold. Some tribes painted their bodies. Scarlet and red was also the color of their banners, tips of their spears, and body paint. Their shields were yellow and black with spikes. They tamed the massive _Mûmakil_ (**Oliphaunts**) and used them in warfare, strapping towers to their backs to be used by archers and spearmen.

_Khand_ was the name of a land which lay to the south-east of Mordor and to the east of Near Harad. Little is known about Khand or its people, other than that they were allied to Mordor, making a coordinated attack against Gondor as early as T.A. 1944. It is unknown if Khand was ever conquered by the reunited kingdom or if they remained independent. It is also unknown if they ever warred with the folk of the West after Sauron's demise.


End file.
